‘Fuck, Madison. That’s heavy. I know that story by heart.”
Silent tears streamed down her face and I pulled her into a tight hug. She sobbed into my shoulder, but I could just feel her body quake with pain. There was no sound except the silence enveloping us both. Some kind of shroud of grief that, although uncomfortable and dark, felt just like home.
“Maybe I wish she had died in the car accident. Because maybe I could just love her then and dispose of all the ugly feelings I have. But she wasn’t so lucky to die in the car, she became a ghost of her former self and we had to watch her destroy the woman we loved—the woman we depended on so much. She loved the high more than she loved us, and her last fucking high swallowed up her whole life."
I didn't know what to say to her confession. There wasn’t anything I could say. Heroin was a thief. It stole people’s lives, it tore mothers from their own children. I already hated the junk with everything in me. But to hear how it made her suffer, I hated it even more. What’s the chance that the one girl I had fallen for had already seen the trauma of addiction first hand? There was no way she was going to look past mine.
The stories gave us a strong connection, but they also predestined us for the very worst kind of heartbreak. We could be co-dependent, toxic, enablers, and the list went on. I learned in recovery to surround myself with sober people and to stay the hell away from others who’d suffered addiction trauma.
"You've been sober for ten years?" she asked.
"Next month will be ten years. I feel like it’s a second chance and I try to live my life by that credo. I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death and I’ll never go back there until it’s my time.”
"What if you had an accident and the pain got bad again?" she asked. Her question was sincere. She needed reassurance. She’d been wounded too deep before.
“I would never take them. Any kind of painkillers."
"You don't know that," she said. She sighed and her eyes fixed on the field then stretched to the sky.
"Actually, I do. I was in a bad motorcycle accident five years ago. Totaled my first Harley. I dealt with the pain anyway I could. I stayed sober. I'd rather suffer through the worst kind of torture than be a slave to h again."
"Get rid of the bike," she said.
"What?"
"Maybe that’s what you should do. Be more risk averse. Decrease your chances of getting hurt.” She stood and stretched, then turned toward me, touched her forehead to mine and closed her eyes. “Thank you for telling me your truth, Duke. It’s not so ugly that you have to keep it bottled up inside. If you feel like people judge you, just remember, that’s not what matters. You got out alive and you’re living your life. You’re free. That’s the best kind of story there is.”
She started walking down the bleachers and hopped off the last one. I stood to follow her and listened to the hollow clanking my footsteps made as I descended.
I wanted to ask her if she loved me. If she wanted to be with me. My insides felt frantic, but I was strangely calm on the surface. I knew she had to process, it wasn’t like there was a yes or no answer.
The geese alighted as Madison drew near. The noise of their wings and sound of their squawking felt like some kind of bad news was coming.
“Duke, toss me the keys!” Madison shouted. The wind blew from behind her whipping her hair up around her face. Instead of the grief I expected to see etched into her face, Maddy looked determined, bright-eyed, and ready to conquer.
“There are no keys. You use your phone! Where are we going?”
“I think I’m ready for that first tattoo now.”
Chapter 7
Madison
The Cherry Bomb tattoo parlor looked like an old fashioned barbers, complete with the red and white barber pole still mounted on the metal gate outside. The interior was all warm wood and mirrors, with the remaining wallspace covered in art. The place smelled a little bit like antiseptic, lemon Pledge, and maybe ink, or at least some note I wasn’t familiar with.
We were there before opening and Duke flipped on the lights all over the store, but didn’t flip the open sign. He was in his element in this space and it was fun to see how he moved on his turf, what he’d built with his tenacity and own two hands when the going got tough.
“You want coffee?”
“Maybe just a bottle of water,” I said. He walked me down the hallway and pointed to a private room.